Pavlova

2008-10-03T15:36:00.000-07:00

On the evening of any of the countless dinner parties my parents threw, my Father was always demoted to little more than a fixture. He was reduced to a useless mass that took up space in the living room with the rest of the inefficient males. It would be a good few years until I joined their ranks, till then my games took on a new dimension. I used to play at being a spy. I’d hide in the same places, but report my observations into the freckle on the wrist of my right arm.

I’d be forgotten about while my Sister and Brothers were sent to bed. I’d be left to observe the drunken stumbling of the adults around me. After a few close calls I’d realise that it no longer mattered if they saw me or not. If my Father saw me walking about he’d mention bed, take another sip of red wine and then carry on talking to his friends.

If I went into the dining room to grab a bite to eat, my Mother would put down her glass of white wine and call me to her. She’d place a hand below my chin and lift my head, then use the other to crush me to her waist. A violent intimacy I've never been able to shake. She held me in a way, that with one swift twist she could have easily have broken my neck. She’d then turn to her friends and carry on talking. Her grip would loosen. Eventually, I’d be allowed to wander off with a large piece of homemade Pavlova.

cuttings of life

Pavlova